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Mike

Dead of winter

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Through the cold glass I peer, and what I see is unclear,

misty haze on yonder lake, the wind chills and I shake,

the sun seems lost beyond the crystal frost and what was once all a bloom seems a faint memory now replaced by gloom. The trees were all breathing and green, now are bare branches acting as a wind screen.

Dead of winter come in swift and bold, snow blankets the ground in fold, bitter crisp air is damn cold. Looking out for the signs of spring, along way off that time it would seem, but the sooner the better it arrives on the scene, much more of this will make the people mean.

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